Forfeiture
by Shades of Ink
Summary: After twelve years of paying for another's betrayal, Sirius Black finds a reason to break from his numbing state of mind. One shot, most likely. (Pre-PoA)


Forfeiture  
  
I sit here at the mercy of time, which has become so indefinite over the years. Yet, at times, mercy is hardly the fitting word.  
  
The fact that I am allowed to be, to simply continue to exist because I once had, is enough to suggest that time is cruel for letting me endure this.  
  
Whether by mercy or cruelty, I have continued to live after dying so long ago, slipping deeper and deeper into this unseen abyss of worthlessness.  
  
Why, I cannot say.  
  
But the truth remains that I am, and will be until my doom has finally caught up with me - that sweet doom. Then, I will rest.  
  
For the time being, I like to imagine I'm here for a purpose - that there's a reason I had not perished at first. However, the thought rarely endures my ever-growing gales of pessimism. It's dark down here in these heavily guarded dungeons of Azkaban, and therefore, my mind has accordingly adjusted.  
  
Even without the dementors, it would be difficult to hope for anything. Hope was something that was hidden, slowly smothered, and eventually, suffocated.  
  
I hadn't the breath for hope. As such, I hadn't the hope for breath.  
  
Yet, to my own dismay, air continued to rush into my lungs, even after forbidding it from entering - covering my mouth with my hands and conjuring this doom on my own. Every time, my body's very instinct to live sent a raw shock of desperation throughout me, frantically sucking in the vital air around me in a wild gasp.  
  
The dementors never granted my wish in killing me - they only continued to make life worse.  
  
After the first suicidal thoughts subsided away into a miserable oblivion in the back of my mind, I began to think of the world beyond thick stone walls.  
  
Was my name known? Was it condemned? Was it so infamous that no one dared mention it? Or was I so conceited in the enormity of my crime to think it had such a wide impact?  
  
How quick I forgot the crime was not mine. Peter was the criminal. Yet, the guilt belonged to me, solely. I doubted the rotter felt a thing for me... decaying here...  
  
I sometimes attempt, in vain, to calculate the year it had become. I'd come here in '81... though I'd failed at counting anything afterwards. It was impossible to tell. For all that stayed in my memory, I could have been here only a day or two.  
  
It's impossible to define exactly what the dementors do to me - it's been so long. It used to be definite fear, swimming images, recognizable screams, names neatly scrawled in death. It'd been torture, like binding me to the immovable wall of my own memories, ripping my very heart out, and finding my screams drowned out amidst the blaring of silence.  
  
I soon felt it so constantly, it became a numb routine, an ever-present song that played in the back of my mind without an end. My heart began to beat to the rhythm of its own pain.  
  
I found transforming helped. It'd never been an obvious idea, or an invented thought of mine, really. It'd happened coincidentally while remembering a certain full moon in which I was compelled to brutally injure a friend of mine – a monster – in order to save myself. Before the habitual wave of negative feelings had left me completely, I found I'd woken myself to reality when I hit the wall, snarling. At the time, I hadn't the energy to transform back, so I'd fallen asleep as Padfoot.  
  
For once, I slept without dreams.  
  
After that night, it became an experiment - which proved succesfull - and eventually, a way of life. If a dementor was near by, I detached myself from my human form, returning only when a guard of more developed conscious mind passed my cell.  
  
Though, people rarely did. It must have been twice, I remember. Once, the Minister of Magic herself, Millicent Bagnold, and later, a mob of Aurors on a guided tour of the fortress.  
  
The other times, it was only a periodical check – a silent, anonymous routine in which no one spoke.  
  
Therefore, it was nearly impossible to get any news. The only form I ever got was from the aforementioned visitors' rare and light conversations, and the little any of the newer prisoners said before their minds cracked.  
  
As my thoughts numbed to time and logic, the years began to fly over me in a swirl of oblivion. It never made sense how fast the days went, seeing as I hadn't a window at all to tell if it was day or night.  
  
It was another lightless day where I marveled at how awful my hair had gotten, as if I'd only cut it the day before. Every morning (or moment in which I woke up) was the same – I asked myself who I was, why I felt so miserable, and who it was that kept sobbing in my ears.  
  
But that day something happened out of the ordinary. It was so unexpected, so longed for, I snapped out of my brooding consciousness and felt a human emotion akin to one Sirius Black had once felt – excitement.  
  
A man passed by, casually peering into each cell. He was a little short, balding man with a giant bowler hat. Coincidentally, or perhaps deliberately, he skipped a glance when passing mine.  
  
"Excuse me, sir," I called, surprising myself that I could still speak, however hoarse it may have sounded.  
  
A hand of shock stopped the man dead in his tracks, and slowly turned him around. His eyes caught mine, which were barely noticeable through the small barred opening in the door. At once, his startled face softened to mere surprise.  
  
"C – can I help you?" he stuttered awkwardly. I was sure I recognized him, though I wasn't sure where from. I also wasn't too certain I wanted to figure out who he was, for I'd vowed long ago not to try and remember that far back. He seemed as if he recognized me, as well.  
  
I wanted to make conversation – to use my voice, for once. I asked him what the weather was like.  
  
"Er... it – it's sunny. Perfectly bright and sunny."  
  
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine it. I found it difficult, if not impossible.  
  
Upon inquiring of his name, and receiving a hesitant answer in return, I then casually asked for his Daily Prophet. I had no use for stealth or guile, for it would be very difficult to convince anyone while behind bars, convicted of brutal murder. So, I rather requested, telling him I missed doing the crossword.  
  
Cornelius Fudge, as the man had revealed himself to be, acquiesced uneasily, clearly unnerved that a man who'd been sent here to rot was speaking to him in such a civilized manner.  
  
I didn't notice him walk off, as I had already engulfed myself into the paper.  
  
I found it was July the 22, 1993 – nearly twelve years since my introduction to bondage. I also found that Cornelius Fudge was the Minister of Magic, and that Rubeus Hagrid – a vaguely familiar name – had just been released from Azkaban. I referred back to the front page, which I had skipped.  
  
My search halted abruptly, gazing at a large moving picture of a family spanning from a tall, balding man all the way to a small girl on the end.  
  
I scanned the article, my excitement ebbing away as I grew increasingly uninterested. I caught a word, however, a familiar word, wonderfully reminiscent – Hogwarts. They spoke of the youngest boy who would be attending the school for his third year. I referred back to the picture, and noticed something new.  
  
The boy stood tall, his arm around his sister, but on the opposite shoulder sat a small, ill-looking rat. I regarded the image of the rat warily, biting back the fresh wave of memories.  
  
Unbidden, they returned. I screamed anew at the image of a bloody rat scurrying down into the sewers, beyond my grasp, leaving me blameless, yet guilty, amidst the ruins of a muggle street.  
  
The rat in the picture scurried to the boy's other shoulder with a sort of hobble that haunted me. I brought the paper so close, it nearly grazed the tip of my nose. Owing to the sheer size of the picture, I was able to see one of the rat's small, thinning hands in detail – with a finger amiss.  
  
The lone word in the article stood out again – Hogwarts. My hands began shaking so violently, the paper slipped. I bit my tongue to keep from voicing my rage, persisting until blood was spilling out.  
  
I inhaled a shaky hiss between clenched teeth, exhaling three words, which repeated themselves almost mockingly, setting my mind onto one track, and one track only.  
  
"He's at Hogwarts, he's at Hogwarts, he's at Hogwarts..."  
  
AN: I don't know what to say – I've grown fond of writing one-shots, but I feel this could have the potential to continue. I guess it depends on the feedback I get. Did anyone like it? 


End file.
